


Ports in a Storm

by sciencemyfiction



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: D/s, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Penetrative Sex, Rimming, Size Kink, Whipping, bdsm explored, control play, sappy and floofy, so sap, vague spoilers for plot of the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull is a gentle, dominant force for Mahanon Lavellan; exactly what he needs. Five places and times where they worked their issues out with a little bit of sex, and the occasional d/s talk. </p><p>Written on request for kenningraven, who had to pick the locations to get the goods. Some spoilers for DA:Inquisition plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ports in a Storm

**the table**

The war table smells faintly of spilled wine, markers scattered, paper furled up on the corners. He is spreading the map when the door opens, and nobody is here yet, he hadn’t called them in--

“Kadan.”

“Bull,” he sighs in relief, continuing his work with half a thought to reasons why the Iron Bull might have come to the war room unannounced. It wasn’t something he’d done before, but there could be a report in and he’d have more to tell Leliana, if that were the case. “I’m still setting up, but what can I do for you?”

His head is still a little foggy from the long trek, and his fingers and toes feel like they’ll always be a little frostbitten. The healers said that it was just a lingering sensation of the mind, not real, not physical, anyway. Cole had said it would go away if maybe he thought about happy things, warm things.

“It’s more what I can do for you,” Bull says, drawing closer.

This is not the first time they’ve been together, but it’s the first time they’ve been together since settling in. It occurs to him that he, the so-called Inquisitor Lavellan, mighty lord of the Inquisition, actually has a room with a bed in it this time, and they wouldn’t have to do it out behind the chantry with Bull’s hand over his mouth if he invites Bull upstairs.

“Right here,” Bull’s lips are soft, on the back of his neck and hands curl over his shoulders, gently sliding down his arms to his elbows. Just so, with a simple gesture, Bull makes it clear that the map, still in need of placing, will not be set up, not right now. Mahanon swallows down his first answer, which is to laugh and joke that they’ll be interrupted if they stay here. “I want to take you right here, Kadan.”

“I--” He has an image of Cullen, walking in, turning red, passing out, maybe dying of a heart attack. To say nothing of Josephine, who might as easily start crying at such a lewd display as faint, and Leliana would then have to kill them for upsetting Josephine and--

“Stop thinking.”

Bull buries his nose in Mahanon’s hair, nuzzling him, sliding one big hand down Mahanon’s chest to his stomach and pulling him in, pressing their bodies close. Another half a word slips out of Mahanon’s lips, but then the fight seeps away. It’s warm, here, like this. Every part of him, even his fingers and toes. He can forget those days (they’d seemed like weeks) trudging through the snow, helpless, battered, he can forget how hard it was to keep walking. Bull is here and Bull is warm and Bull is bigger than the world, can hold the world back, curtain it, shield him.

He stops thinking, and the Iron Bull makes a soft noise of approval, loosening his grip and stepping back. Now will come the orders; Iron Bull likes talking while they lay with each other. A lot. At first Mahanon had thought he might become embarrassed when Mahanon didn’t reciprocate, but a quiet and attentive lover seemed to be what Bull wanted, and that was what Mahanon felt comfortable being-- at least, for now.

“You won’t want to get completely undressed, it’s pretty cold in here. Have them set up some kind of furnace or something for next time you call a meeting, besides. Those three won’t think to do it and I know you don’t feel comfortable telling them what to do. It’s a good idea, best for everybody’s comfort.” Bull looks thoughtful, eyeing the door as he comes around to the other side of the table. His attention shifts abruptly back to Mahanon, who jumps, feeling self-conscious for meeting Iron Bull’s eye without asking if that was fine, first.

The Keeper was nothing like Iron Bull, really, but both of them have presence, and that’s his first thought when he’s near someone with such a huge personality; subside, listen, learn. Only after a lot of prodding has Mahanon gotten used to the idea that sometimes he should lead, too.

And not here. Not right now. “Take your pants off. I’m going to make you ride me.”

Face hot, Mahanon forces a smile. They haven’t done this yet. He’s not sure he’s ready, but he doesn’t want to say that. “Are you, now?”

“Is that backtalk, I wonder?” Bull purrs, and no, no, he really doesn’t want to get sidetracked doing punishment games (no matter how enjoyable they were behind the chantry) when they could be interrupted at any moment by who knows and Josephine’s office is RIGHT there so she’s going to know either way and--

Mahanon has never stripped out of his pants and boots so quickly in his life. Not even when there was a shemlen attack on the aravels and fire in the woods.

“I thought so,” Bull laughs, and tips his head back, eyeing Mahanon with approval. Does he like how much bigger he is, Mahanon has to wonder-- is it a turn on for him as much as it is for Mahanon to be climbing someone that feels like a walking tree? “Come here.”

He walks amiably about the table, and when Bull slips out of his shoulder harness, his belt, his pants, Mahanon sucks in a sharp breath, holding onto it to keep from saying anything that might not get him what he wants. But-- he wants to put his mouth on Bull, too. He’s been wanting that for weeks. Since they met. He doesn’t know  how to ask. He hasn’t ever done it before, what if Bull doesn’t want to let him?

“Do you trust me?”

Bull hasn’t complained about Mahanon’s roving attention, but he seems amused when he finally is able to get their gazes locked again, and doesn’t let go, tipping Mahanon’s chin up with one gentle, callused finger.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to give you something to bite down on, then. Here.” A strip of leather-- oh, his belt-- and then Bull’s hands, circling Mahanon’s waist like he’s a delicate sapling and Bull is going to pull him out by the roots. Not entirely inaccurate: Bull flops back onto the war room table, scattering all the pieces Mahanon had set up, knocking over a fortuitously empty mug, and crumpling one of the rolled up maps. He looks absolutely unconcerned, and Mahanon hasn’t got time to care about it because he has been lifted into the air and is clutching the belt in both hands, a little startled as Bull pulls him up to straddle Bull’s chest. It’s impossibly wide, strains his thighs until he tries to kneel. Then his legs start shaking, but he forces himself to concentrate on it, holding the position with a small frown.

Bull smiles up at him so kindly that he feels a flush spreading over his face. “W-what?”

“Kadan, you’re so good, I didn’t even have to tell you what to do. You bite down on that leather and just hold on, okay? I’m going to make this really good for you.”

He has literally no idea how they’re going to do anything like this (Bull is big but not so big his cock is laying up against his chest or anything terrifying like that) and does as he’s told, tasting a bit of sweat in the leather as he sets it between his teeth.

Just in time to stifle his shout as Bull begins prodding at his buttocks with one finger, lazily teasing skin more sensitive than Mahanon could possibly have guessed. He was hard already and now he’s shaking, doubled over, incredulous and confused just from a few lazy touches. Maybe it’s the fact that nobody’s really ever done this with him before-- this kind of controlling play where he has no idea what to expect. He’s had sex, plenty of it, but apparently not the right kind, because Iron Bull could look at him the right way and Mahanon would be in pieces.

It’s already good and then Bull scoops him forward, just a little, lifting his head and sucking Mahanon’s cock down like it’s dinner, all in one great gulp.

Mahanon is conscious that he’s screaming, but he’s twice as aware of the salt on his tongue from the belt that Bull was wearing; of the finger now tickling that same, oversensitive skin while Bull’s tongue is rolling him about in that perfect, glorious mouth. Maybe this is what it’s like to be tortured in a Qunari’s way; broken apart step by step, until your body can’t take it anymore and your mind only begs for more of the same. If Bull wanted him to, Mahanon would convert in an instant, and they’ve only just started.

“Comin’ in,” Bull mumbles, pulling back just enough to have his lips free to say it before he dives back in, sucking hard (Mahanon can feel the imprint of his teeth on skin close hot warm yes) while another finger-- this one slick, Mahanon hadn’t even noticed before-- begins pressing lightly against his hole. Maybe this is what it’s like to feel like you don’t have to worry about whether you’re holy or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s good, it feels so good, and Bull’s chest rumbles under him when he cringes into a spasm that’s just shy of orgasm, holding back through sheer willpower.

Another pause, Bull’s lips shiny with saliva.

“You don’t hafta, I’m trying to make you pop your cork a few times really fast. Let go.”

Anybody else speaking about it so casually would probably have some kind of derision in their voice, but for Bull sex is sex, is sex is sex so Mahanon takes it at face value and this time, when his whole body locks up and the finger breaches that first ring of muscle, he doesn’t stop himself.

He’s bitten halfway through the belt, he can feel his teeth sinking into it. His skin is tingling, he’s covered in sweat, Bull’s finger-- just one finger-- is almost as big as a human’s cock would be (and oh, he should be ashamed he’s fucked humans before but he never was, there’s a reason the Keeper sent him to that fucking conclave) and Bull is bobbing his head along, calmly sucking down the evidence of Mahanon’s weakness. He doesn’t push deeper with that finger, though, rams it around the rim of Mahanon’s asshole instead, until Mahanon’s thighs twitch and his hips buck up into those perfect damn lips again. It’s rough, kind of nice, against Bull’s chin, his cheeks, the stubble scrapes but not unpleasantly against Mahanon’s skin.

He makes a desperate sound, clenching his fists into the belt, twisting one hand into it while he bites down even harder, and Bull keeps prodding him there, ceaseless and wicked, until Mahanon comes again, again, four times before his vision suddenly swims and the tension snaps, and he drops out of consciousness for a minute or two, unaware.

When he comes to he is spent and still breathless, cradled in arms that could crush him, his head pressed to Bull’s chest. The steady, calm beat of Bull’s heart is what brings him to full awareness. Bull isn’t worried. Just patient. Bull has also taken the liberty of dressing them both while Mahanon was out.

He feels so warm, now; like the frigid wastes and Haven were just a dream. It’s not true but he needs this feeling, especially at this exact moment. He doesn’t have to say anything; Iron Bull just holds him, whispering soft and gentle praise, promising to take care of him.

And Mahanon believes him.

* * *

 

**the ball**

He has had too much wine, probably, maybe. He’s not sure. He’s heard a hundred different faceless humans scathingly talking about him, about the servants, about Briala behind his back. This has been the worst night in his recent memory, it’s worse than fighting Corypheus was and that had been hopeless. At least Corypheus had been just one person. Who cares if Orlais falls to ruin and chaos? At this point, Mahanon is fairly certain these self-important bastards deserve it.

That is the wine talking. Maybe his wounded pride. Bull has been pleased, enjoying the spiced nuts, eating his fill and flirting with Orlesian women too curious to maintain their facade of horror at the presence of ‘an ox’.

Mahanon is hurt by this, but knows he shouldn’t be. That was Bull’s job, act normal, distract people, stay out of trouble, fight if necessary. They’d fought. They even won the day. Things are done now, all done. There was that moment when he started having trouble keeping decent in the Empress’s bedroom-- her damned bedroom. The Halla statues had been hell to locate, hidden by elves now dead who’d known their reasoning but not left any kind of indicator of what that reasoning was in writing. He hates to think it was because some of them probably couldn’t have read what was written. All the other things they’d found tonight were bad enough, but Celene had known of the danger, engineered a situation that risked her own damn neck, just so she could humiliate Gaspard another time, and then left the man she got the information from bound to her damned bed, naked, for no reason that made logical sense whatsoever. Maybe she’d hoped anyone who might find the man would discredit him due to his indecency?

They’d rescued him, and Bull had slanted him a significant look, and that was-- that was oddly the highlight of Mahanon’s night, thinking about Iron Bull, and people tied up on beds. But they can’t do that here, now, can they? So Mahanon is sulking on the balcony, willing the evening to end a little faster so he can go back to the inn where their horses are stabled, sleep, and start the journey back to Skyhold come morning. There has been happy news this night, but only if you’re human, if you can excuse the horrific slaughter that just happened.

Of course the nobles can; and regardless of their personal feelings, his soldiers and fellow members of the Inquisition have to keep up appearances. But Mahanon would rather not pretend to smile after the hellish evening he’s had.

Would that he could sneak away and….something.

“Hey.” Bull settles beside him, leaning on the balcony railing like a mountain about to topple over into a rockslide. It creaks under his weight, but Bull doesn’t seem to care. The idea that it might be dented is actually comforting, and Mahanon smiles back. Maybe they can inconvenience these bastard nobles before the night is out with a few minor damages like that. Sera doesn’t have it wrong, there. “I wanna show you something. Come on.”

Intrigued, Mahanon steps away from the railing in tandem with Iron Bull, following him with an alert and curious expression. Those who are attending the party will doubtless assume that some additional news about the massive conspiracy tonight has been unearthed. Let them believe what they will. Mahanon doesn’t think about that, instead following Bull to the trophy room. They’d slipped in earlier, found some notes from Gaspard but little else to incriminate him. Knowing it is guarded, he can’t help wondering if it’s wise to return here, but as Bull closes the door behind them, Mahanon begins to get the faintest sensation of excitement back.

This room is dark, barely lit by the little glowstones over the displays, but it’s close and easy to see Bull, who is motioning to the door. Intrigued, Mahanon steps closer to it, and stifles a gasp when he finds himself suddenly pressed against it, face mashed against its polished surface, Bull’s massive hips pinning his to the wooden frame.

“I’ve got four daggers here,” Bull says, low and soft, right into Mahanon’s ear, knowing it’ll make him shiver. He shivers; Bull seems pleased. “I’m going to pin your hands with these. The guard will come back in about five minutes. If you struggle, it’ll knock the daggers out of where I’ve pinned you. They’ll hear us, and everybody will know you let me fuck you in the dark.”

Mahanon’s head swims, and he nods, cheek still pressed into the door. “Yes.”

“You make any noise, they’ll hear us, and everybody will know you like to take it from me.”

“Yes.”

“You know your safe word?”

“Yes.”

“Say it for me, remind me.”

“Katoh.”

“Ready?”

Mahanon’s head is probably swimming partially from the wine, but it’s been hours since he had a glass and this is putting a whole new burning excitement in him, lending him focus. He nods this time, and Bull gets to work, driving the daggers in like nails (and they are like nails, to him, to his huge hands). They stick firmly in the wall, spreading Mahanon’s hands wide, two daggers through his dress uniform’s sleeves at the wrist, each. He clenches his hands into fists, and tries to control his breathing.

Bull strips, then strips him, pulling Mahanon’s shoes off with loving delicacy, rolling his pants down his legs, spreading him wide. There’s a soft sound of a cap being removed from-- ah, the oil, that stuff Bull had had to special order.

“I thought that was for your horns--!” Mahanon can’t help teasing, his breath coming short and his voice a little thin with nervousness and excitement both. What if they’re found out? What if the guard is back in place already? What if someone comes in to see the trophy room?

Bull just laughs. “Yeah, that too.”

But right now, it’s for this, for Bull’s fingers smoothing a path up into Mahanon’s ass, teasing, circling, pushing slowly in. One finger, and he just keeps working it deeper, pulling it out periodically to slather it with more oil.

“How many people did you kill tonight?” Iron Bull asks casually, when he’s buried his finger all the way to the third knuckle and Mahanon is seeing stars. He’s barely capable of keeping silent, he has no idea how to answer and still respect the rules. Rather than try, he makes an anguished, soft noise of apology, and Bull begins pumping that single finger in and out of him. “I’m sympathetic, I didn’t really keep count either. They deserved it, the lot of them. Fucking Vints.”

“Wh- wha’ ‘bout Dorian,” Mahanon slurred, thinking back to a few of the conversations he’d overheard between the two men in the past. “You like him.”

“Am I fucking him?”

This should answer the question and silence his thoughts, but Mahanon blinks a few more times, coming further out of his trance, not dropping deeper in. “Wouldn’t you? If he was here instead of me.”

“Sure I would, but I’m not fucking him, am I?”

Until now Mahanon hadn’t been absolutely sure that was the case; he feels himself flushing with shame for doubting Iron Bull’s honesty with him, but swallows it away, closing his eyes as that finger starts curling whenever it’s buried in him.

The words that he hadn’t meant to say are drawn out of him, almost painful, slow and sure as Bull makes an inquiring noise like he needs to hear something and curls his finger just that tiny hair more and suddenly, Mahanon’s knees are giving out beneath him.

“N-o-ohhhh, you’re not,” he gasps, sweat beading on his face. He turns it to push the other cheek against the door, embarrassed but helpless, and enjoying the helplessness too much to care about the embarrassment. “You’re with me.”

“I’m good to you,” Iron Bull agrees, and begins thrusting with that calm finger again, applying more of the oil every now and then. “I wouldn’t trade you, either. I’m glad it’s you.”

Mahanon wants to say yes, or agree in some other, more noticeable way but this is the moment when Bull finally, FINALLY slips in a second finger, and instead Mahanon has to focus every fiber of himself on holding perfectly still, his shoulders bunching tight with the urge to claw at the wall, his toes curling. He grinds his hips fruitlessly against the door, smearing precum over its smooth surface, soiling its paneling and caring not even the tiniest little bit at all.

“Gonna make you come right now, and then I’m gonna see if we can stretch you a little more.”

The thought is maddening, but Mahanon manages to nod, some of his hair falling in his eyes, now. Some way he shifted has gotten it messy. Normally he’d want to do something about that but he doesn’t care, he can’t think, Iron Bull’s fingers are so warm and deliciously big inside him, big enough that he’s starting to feel full from them, and if they can stretch him enough, maybe, maybe, maybe tonight he’ll finally get to have Iron Bull, finally let Iron Bull take him like he’s wanted all along.

Those fingers scissor and then curl expertly, digging into his prostate until he sobs his surrender, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. His semen feels hot against his thigh where he accidentally sprays it onto himself, but most of it is drooling down the door when he manages to make himself look. Looking is almost as bad as Bull slipping in a third finger, but not quite.

He suddenly doesn’t have to worry about making noise; in the aftershocks of orgasm he thinks he might swallow his tongue. Instead of a scream-- he screams plenty when they’re fucking in Skyhold-- he can barely muster a shaky sigh, whimpering when Bull pushes hard past the tightness of post-orgasm and starts lavishing attention on Mahanon’s sweet spot with all three of them.

It’s only a little thing, but Bull presses a kiss to his hip and Mahanon’s skin tingles there, and the heat in his face recedes a little. He’s not embarrassed anymore, just-- desperate to please. Hopeful. And Bull is so easy to please, all Mahanon has to do is obey.

“Good?”

He nods, beyond words, as Bull’s three fingers spread for a moment, then furl together and drive in all the way, as deep as those fingers can go. Mahanon’s legs are shaking, trying to spread wider to make room. He feels dizzy, maybe the wine, maybe not. He rests his forehead against the door, forces himself to breathe, and when Bull starts kissing his hip again, sucking, lingering kisses to the left, then the right, he feels himself slip back down into readiness, feels his cock answer, hard again, rubbing against the wet spot he left on the door eagerly for some friction.

“No,” Bull says, gently, lifting his other hand at last to pull Mahanon’s hips back. Like this, his toes don’t barely touch the ground, and he is hanging from his numb fists pinned to the door and Bull’s hand supporting him, pressing hard into his belly. The world flips. He whimpers. “No fucking the door, Kadan. You’re going to come just from my fingers in you. And next time, you’ll be ready for me.”

The thought is intoxicating, and Mahanon nods his agreement to it, accepting the offer or the promise with eagerness that would be humiliating to show in front of anyone else. With Bull, it’s just a please smile at how good Mahanon is being for him, and then those fingers are working him over again, inside him so far he can hardly catch his breath, filling him, fucking him until with a hoarse sob of desire he spills a meager bit of seed on Bull’s wrist. It’s lucky Bull prefers to be naked when they do their play together, or they’d have to explain that telltale bit of evidence to Cullen. Leliana, of course, will have already guessed, no matter what they do.

Mahanon isn’t really thinking about them, though-- he is safe, floating, his numb hands slowly uncurling from those fists he’d made as he comes back to himself feeling finally a little bit satisfied.

He admits, glumly, “I hate politics.”

Bull laughs, pressing a final kiss to Mahanon’s hip. “Then you got a shitty job, Boss.”

* * *

 

**waking up**

They are all sorry they went to Adamant Fortress.

Varric is relieved. Hawke, his friend, is alive-- far away, but alive. That’s good enough for him. He regrets the death of the Warden, but he’s glad for the life of his friend. He seems to be comforted by that.

Cole has been frightened for the entire trip back, and now is begging for help to ensure he cannot be bound to the will of a bloodmage. Solas is unwilling, but Mahanon has promised to have one of the amulets of the unbound searched-- has already sent out a party after this goal, as soon as he knew Cole needed it.

Cassandra has been writing when she is not training, adrift, bereft as she wasn’t even when they first met. She talks to Leliana, who shares her sorrow.

Blackwall is horrified, but relieved to have a chance to see the Wardens restored. This is the feeling of most of the others. The general consensus is that the wardens can’t be trusted to act independently, but might do better with the Inquisition’s oversight. Whether that is true remains to be seen. Everyone is safe in the knowledge that Mahanon will be taking care of them all.

And Mahanon is falling apart.

It feels too real and not real enough, bathing now that they’re back, trying to get the stink of blood and the debris from the rubble off of him again. The liquid from the Fade-- not water, not exactly-- had dried up as soon as they walked free but the rest stayed, and it has felt oppressive for the whole three week journey back to Skyhold. His skin is oversensitive to the scalding hot water, but the initial sharp sting of the heat seems to disappear shortly, as if everything has gone cold. He’s been seeing things, too, lingering images, half-recognized dread. Sometimes it’s Alistair, but Alistair is not really with them and he knows it.

Sometimes it’s Keeper Uriel.

Sometimes it’s his sisters, and their hunting parties.

He feels haunted, as if the dead have taken residence with him and followed him from the Fade. It seems highly possible that he has in fact been attracting spirits to him, thanks to the unwanted mark on his hand. He wants to sleep, but sleep brings nightmares, and he never forgets them when he wakes now-- and has to force himself to be glad of it.

Bull was shaken too, but Bull has already talked to the chargers, and seems to be fine now. Probably, Mahanon has thought, Bull’s fear, worst of all fears, had been that he might lose himself and the chargers both; returning to the real world had helped prove the first false, but the second had had to wait until they were back in the keep.

He should see Bull, he decides, because Bull is someone he can trust, something solid and sturdy in his life, and while a part of him is just a little bit terrified to be so reliant on another person after a lifetime of relative solitude and self-sufficiency, Mahanon knows he is losing this battle to keep himself from falling to screaming fits, and he doesn’t want to fight it alone.

Normally one finds the Iron Bull in the tavern with Krem at his side and the chargers arrayed nearby. Today, he is out in the field, snarling at Cassandra to hit him. She does, and grows agitated, finally handing the stick over to Mahanon and managing to joke that he might be better suited. She knows of their affair, though not the details, and Mahanon is grateful for her tact.

He doesn’t even realize  what’s happening as Bull demands that Mahanon strike him with the stick. He starts to question and Bull snaps at him, snarling so angrily that anger sparks in return.

Mahanon is not weak, though his tiny daggers might let some foolish people lower their guard, thinking him harmless. He swings with all of his might, feels the shock of the blow all the way up his arms, and grits his teeth, snarling when Iron Bull simply responds with a pleased, again.

He swings so hard he nearly knocks himself over, and could scream in frustration to find Bull so solid on his feet. The stick or Mahanon will break before Iron Bull does.

“Again.” There’s a scathing irritation in that voice, a taunt, and Mahanon drives the stick hard and fast, swinging it in such a sharp arc that it does snap, and Bull staggers. It’s so gratifying to see that that the rage and helpless pain kindling in Mahanon’s chest is suddenly extinguished, shock and relief and worry mingling in the wake of it. Bull only chuckles, steadying himself and gasping for breath. He thanks Mahanon, and puts a huge hand on his shoulder. “But are you okay?”

No. He wants to say everything, no, he’s not doing well at all, he needs help, he needs to forget but he can’t ask that of Cole, not when everything’s still such sharp clarity of horror for them all. Instead, Mahanon smiles falteringly up at Bull, and says, “Did you see what my gravestone had upon it in the fade, Bull?”

Bull shakes his head, looking curious. “Didn’t think there was one for you, actually. I just sorta figured it was because the graveyard itself was your fear, boss. Fear of losin’ everybody.”

They’re walking; Mahanon is listlessly following Bull’s lead, distracted by the lingering ache in his hands. The broken stick is just lying somewhere behind them, discarded. He licks his lips, answering quietly, “No, I had a gravestone. Its text was written in my native tongue, but I wasn’t sure if you could read elvish.”

Bull grunts. “Depends on the handwriting.”

“It said, ‘Mahanon. Traitor.’”

“Traitor? To who?” They pass into the blacksmith’s hall, and up the stairs. There’s a closet up there that nobody ever needs anything from. Mahanon has a distant hope that maybe, maybe Bull will fuck him senseless up there and he can forget about the Fade for a while. “Maybe we’ve only known each other half a year, but I can’t imagine you betraying anyone.”

“My-- clan,” Mahanon answers, surprised to feel himself staggering. Has he slept since he came back to Skyhold? He can’t remember. “They sent me here to watch the Conclave. But Keeper Uriel asked me to do everything I could to see that it went right; that the humans would stop warring. Elves suffer first when they do.”

“That’s the damn truth,” Bull agreed quietly. “Didn’t think the Dalish gave a shit about city elves, though.”

“Not all clans do,” Mahanon said, shrugging as they crested the stairs. “Clan Lavellan does.”

“But you know for sure now that you couldn’t have stopped it. And, hey, you did what you could to help, even. That’s not betraying anybody.”

It’s simplistic, and it’s also Bull prying for more information, Mahanon realizes, just as he’s about to snap heatedly that Bull is being stubborn and of course it is and doesn’t he remember the fucking Qun making him choose between home and family?

“Hey.” Bull’s voice is gentle, even though he was just demanding to be struck by a stick until it broke a few minutes ago. “What’s this about?”

They stop outside of the closet, and Mahanon doesn’t mind when Bull starts slowly unbuttoning Mahanon’s coat, and slips it off of his shoulders. He lets himself be cared for, listlessly moving about as told, and he answers Bull’s question in a hushed voice, half in elvish, not even thinking about it. “We’ve heard of the Hero of Ferelden. He came from another clan-- wiped out now, because their First turned to blood magic and killed everyone. That was-- Hawke’s friend. She meant well, I guess. I don’t know. The Hero of Ferelden though, he didn’t care about us. He couldn’t afford to. He had a position and a duty, he was Grey Warden first, Dalish second. And I--” Mahanon laughs weakly, surprised to realize that he has started wringing his hands together, subconsciously trying to scrub off the damn mark. “I became just like him. I can’t afford to care about my own people-- my own history-- because there’s a bigger threat. And I’m-- surrounded by people who hate me, hate what I am.”

“Kadan--”

“No, they do. The people we work with, they’re good people, Bull. They’re true, they’re dedicated. But only a few of them care for elves as more than something to look at that’s exciting or forbidden. None of them like hearing my opinion on things unless it’s divorced entirely from who I actually am.”

Big, warm, steady hands. When did he start shaking? He’s naked now, and so is Bull, and hopefully no one will come up here--

“I,” he starts, trying to say more. He’s afraid he’ll never go home. He’s afraid he’s lost his family, been traded to a new one by fate and has no choice but to stay now. Nothing comes out, but it doesn’t have to. Bull is wrapped around him, warm, musky, sweating a little still from training out in the courtyard. He relaxes, feeling Bull nosing at the back of his neck.

“You smell clean,” Bull murmurs, dragging his chin over Mahanon’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to his damp hair. “let’s get you relaxed, and I’ll tell you what I think about the idea of you being a traitor.”

It’s not that simple, or he doesn’t think it is, or can be, but Bull’s hands are so pleasant on his chest, trailing down his hip. Mahanon doesn’t fight it when Bull maneuvers him to the chair  sitting by the only window up here, bends him in half, steadies Mahanon’s hands on the legs of it and bids him kneel, resting his face on the seat.

And then like a great big blanket of muscle Bull kneels behind him, warm, above him, safe, and enfolds him in those massive arms, trailing fingertips over his nipples and along his belly.

“Cassandra never even thought about the freedom of elvenkind before she met you,” Bull tells him, in that matter-of-fact way he discusses his observations about everyone, all Ben-Hassrath at the moment. His finger is teasing Mahanon’s nipple so lightly it could barely be called a caress, and the touch is all the more electric for it. “Cullen is actively looking into treatment of mage-elves, and has demanded accountability for the Templars since they historically don’t recruit elves at all.”

Mahanon rests his face on the seat of the chair, and doesn’t try to pretend there aren’t tears on his cheeks. He doesn’t fight it, though; doesn’t deny those truths. He knows these things, even. This is no secret to him.

“As for Morrigan, she might be kinda scary, but she’s been setting the kids straight around here since she showed up. You don’t know the shit some of them say, but they don’t say it anymore. Know better now. Know to call their parents out, too. And Sera? She didn’t even want to be called an elf before. Thought the Dalish were assholes.”

A soft laugh, and Bull licks a path up Mahanon’s spine. He moans, breathless.

“Some of them are, but now she knows better, ‘cause she’s met you. And Solas? I can’t tell what that guy’s thinking, but I know he wouldn’t give two shits about this whole thing if it weren’t for you. He trusts you. He cares about the here-and-now more than he ever has because you’re around, and that includes the elves, Dalish or otherwise.”

“You’re-- That’s--”

Mahanon gasps as Bull’s hands come down, gripping his hips, firm, a little too tight, maybe, and his tongue scrapes over Mahanon’s buttocks. Those huge fingers, splayed over his waist, are like a cage and he needs only his thumbs to part Mahanon and expose him to the slightly chilly air. Bull loves to use his tongue, not just to talk, and he reminds Mahanon of this fact now, teasing him with a low hum as Mahanon’s breath catches on a whimper.

“T-that--”

“It’s all true,” Bull promises, pulling back and looking up at him as Mahanon cranes his head back, unable to mask the fear that has been sitting and festering in his mind for the better part of a month. “You’re no traitor. Your clan knows you for a hero, and they’ll welcome you back when this is all over-- if that’s what you want. But you don’t have to stay in the clan to be true to them, even if they might not understand.”

Bull knows this better, Mahanon realizes, than anyone; and something in his chest breaks that had been so tight he could barely breathe. Relief floods his whole body, just in time for Bull to nod to himself and turn his tongue back to the cruel job of torturing them both. Being filled with Bull’s fingers is exquisite but his tongue can do things fingers can’t do, and it feels so different, slippery and soft and clever.

They have all the time in the world, or they might as well for how quickly Bull goes about it. He drags Mahanon through a leisurely session of torture, bringing him off with tongue only; then, while Mahanon is still panting into the chair’s seat, begins lathering up his fingers with oil. Mahanon has the sense to ask, but not to stay quiet when Bull starts into him, too relaxed and weary to hold back the low, sensuous moan that startles out of him when the first finger slides in much more easily than it would usually, his body already accustomed to intrusion.

“Kadan,” Bull laughs, affection deepening his voice. “Everybody’s gonna come see what’s up if you make noises like that.”

He nods, but makes no move to stop himself when the second push of that finger brings another, lingering moan out of him, and meets Bull’s eye with a totally unrepentant expression.

“I’m gonna hold you now. One second.”

Bull lifts him, lays back on the floor, and settles him on Bull’s big, warm chest. Like this he can’t see Bull’s face, but Bull can watch his; it’s a little exhilarating, and he doesn’t complain when the finger returns, easily reaching him even from this new position. Bull is so much bigger than Mahanon that he doesn’t have to angle his hips or lift his shoulder to reach; that alone is sort of exciting.

But since Bull is watching, when the next moan comes he catches it, using his free hand to push a finger into Mahanon’s lips, insistently keeping it there and commanding, “Suck on this.”

From there, it doesn’t matter that Mahanon hasn’t got the will to keep quiet, because Bull has his voice trapped and his mouth busy. He moans himself hoarse by the time Bull has stretched him to three fingers, and oh, he’s close, he’s not quite there but he’s so close to coming a second time.

“Do you remember what I told you the last time we were together?” Bull asks, and his chest is a rumble against Mahanon’s spine, his voice is a tickle in Mahanon’s left ear, soft and close and powerful as distant thunder.

“I’m ready,” is his answer. There aren’t tears anymore; just lassitude, and trust, and relief, gladness that someone else can carry him for a little while, that someone else can fight his fear with him.

It is slow going, even as relaxed and stretched out as he is, and Mahanon is delirious with the desire to rush and the knowledge that Bull will not let him by the time they finally get just the head of that enormous dick in. He’s never felt so inadequate in size before now, even when he was thinking about where he eventually intended their relationship to go. Iron Bull had had sex with other people of all races and genders before, so it had never occurred to Mahanon to wonder if he wouldn’t be able to take it all in.

Now he’s sure he can, and simultaneously sure he can’t, and the effort is making him slowly tense up, forgetting to enjoy the finger he’s sucking on, the feeling of having Bull inside him in both places.

Bull withdraws his finger, and asks kindly, “Did you need to say something?”

“No,” he rasps, licking his lips. His face is wet with spit, drool from having that huge finger breaching his lips. “Just-- I want--”

“Shh,” Bull presses a kiss to the back of Mahanon’s neck. “This isn’t about just you. And I don’t want to hurt you, so we’re going to do it my way.”

They do.

It takes hours.

Or it feels like it does, by the time Bull is finally, finally seated inside him, deep as he can possibly go. Mahanon’s world feels bright, and his thoughts are skittering along the closeness of orgasm, so it’s difficult to think about anything else right now. His hands, which are free and could easily be used to stroke himself to completion, are instead curled at his sides, deliberately waiting for an order before he does anything with them. Bull hasn’t said he’s permitted that, and he remembers how last time Bull made him reach that perfect between point of pleasure and pain with penetration only. He wants to feel it again; it might not be for everyone, but Mahanon wants it back.

This is only one thrust, and it has taken eons. He gasps for breath, turns his head when he realizes that Bull isn’t moving, urgent, worried he’s done something wrong, and is startled to meet the most adoring expression he’s ever seen on Bull’s face. He can’t speak, not coherently, but he feels his brow furrow in concern. Everything all right?

Bull uses that free hand that was muffling Mahanon to pull him in for a slightly awkward kiss, and rocks his hips in a slow, devastating circle, grinding the full girth of himself deep, deep inside of Mahanon’s ass, not bothering to pull free at all, for now. It’s perfect. It’s torture. It’s too much.

“Bull--!” he pulls out of the kiss seconds shy of it, and Bull lays that big hand on Mahanon’s belly, pulling him down, hard, holding him through it. He’s had his fair share of sex, even with Iron Bull by now, but this is so different, the anticipation and the need so twisted inside him that he’s literally unable to see for a few moments after it passes, his hips still twitching, his mouth dry and his legs shaking. He doesn’t even have to support himself, but he’s exhausted.

“That’s good, Kadan.” Bull nuzzles his throat, rocks his hips up again and drinks in the way that Mahanon moans, half-protest and half-ardor lingering on the remnants of that incredible orgasm. “You did really well.”

He wants to hold out for Bull’s orgasm, but he hasn’t got the strength for it. He doesn’t complain when they slide apart, even though his whole body feels like it’s missing something the instant he isn’t full of that weight anymore. Meticulous as ever, Bull dresses them both, cleans them both, then pulls Mahanon up into his arms and they stand there until the shaking finally stops and the world is, at last, something Mahanon can face again.

* * *

 

**burned**

  
  


By the time they get back to the tent, the burn is half frozen from the snow Bull packed around it before they left. It doesn’t sting less, but the flesh beneath is not still burning with fire trapped in it, and the heat is leaching out, leaving his arm cold but probably still possible to save with a little bit of healing magic. It looks awful, blackened skin at the center and angry dark red all the way up his forearm. Varric is worse off and Solas is escorting him the rest of the way to the Keep they’d settled. The tent is just Mahanon and Bull.

This is good.

“Bull,” he says, once he’s suffered enough nurturing for a lifetime and realized that apparently, Iron Bull is trying to carry him all the way back to the keep after all. He still has not been put down, even though there is now a poultice splattered over his burned arm and a potion bottle at his lips. It smells starkly of elfroot and spindleweed, but he lets himself be made to drink it and then reaches up, cupping Bull’s face with both hands, making a point of meeting Bull’s eye. “Bull, please say something.”

“Hush,” is his answer, and rough hands reach up, cover Mahanon’s. “We’re alive.”

This isn’t what Mahanon expected; not the fierce, thunderous joy he’s come to anticipate whenever they seek out and slay a dragon. The Iron Bull is happier than a child on a holiday when there are dragons to fight. Granted, this particular battle had not gone as well as planned, and the burn does sting, but they still won, the dragon’s body is being hacked up by the locals to use the meat and scales and bones, and Mahanon’s well beyond the point of lingering fear at this point. The adrenaline rush of survival is still singing in his ears.

“We’re alive,” Bull says again, and oh, there it is-- his eye has lit as he slowly twists Mahanon’s hands away from his face, pulling them up above Mahanon’s head. He can pin both arms there effortlessly, and he holds Mahanon up, just an inch above where he could stand. “I’m going to come inside you, and I want you to make a lot of noise. Can you do that for me?”

“You say that like it’s a hardship,” Mahanon manages to stutter, embarrassed but excited in spite of himself, and licks his lips (he hopes seductively).

It’s one of those things that catches Bull’s eye, and maybe normally Bull would laugh and chide him for trying too hard or putting on airs but today it just makes the grip tighten on Mahanon’s wrists until it hurts-- slight hurt, not bad hurt, not as bad as the burn was-- and Bull’s face splits into a hungry smile. “Have it, then, and see what you think after, Kadan.”

Bull sets him down, orders him to undress, does the same, fumbles for oil. They’ve never moved this fast, and just a little Mahanon starts to worry-- he doesn’t think he could take Bull’s girth without preparation, but it’s starting to seem like they might skip that part.

He needn’t have worried, he realizes, as Bull points to the floor and Mahanon obediently kneels there.

“Lick me,” Bull demands, in a thunderous voice not quite a shout, and the rumble of it sends a pleasant shiver down Mahanon’s spine. “Finger yourself and lick me. I want to watch you bend for me, Kadan.”

His mouth goes dry but it’s not for lack of desire. Perhaps too quickly (he doesn’t care; can one be too quick about obeying such a salacious command?) he turns to the task, running his tongue along the massive head and excitedly tracing the line of a vein on the underside of the shaft. The smell of Bull is so strong it fills his whole head, and Bull has to repeat the command about fingering himself twice more before Mahanon is able to focus enough to do both at the same time.

They have had him practice fingering himself, though it’s not as effective as letting Bull do the job, naturally. Mahanon has not finished cataloguing all of the things that Iron Bull likes, doesn’t think he ever will, doesn’t mind the continuous search for them, but this is high on that list because Iron Bull gets very quiet and contemplative when he sees Mahanon doing it, like this is almost better than actually being inside him. He knows his face is easy to read like this, but the thought that Bull can see the slight humiliation-- the fact that it is a turn on-- is not inherently frightening. Anyone else, Mahanon would be afraid to put this show on for. For Bull, he is deeply invested. And they killed a dragon today: they should celebrate.

No one had mentioned that this particular beast breathed fire, unlike its two cousins. Emprise du Lion’s frigid plains had turned against them as they fought, melted ice sweeping across the battlefield whenever the dragon’s flaming breath melted the floes around them. To simultaneously be struggling to kill a massive beast, avoid drowning, and avoid burning had proved too much. Varric, the shortest of them all, had nearly been swept beneath the ice by one of the dragon’s final strikes. Solas had been unable to keep hold of his staff and reduced to casting spells barehanded, though it didn’t seem to have stopped him much. And Mahanon had jumped in front of Iron Bull’s blind spot, taking a blast of flame to his arm so he could shield the Iron Bull’s face.

“You serve me very well, Kadan,” Bull says, and he’s talking about why Mahanon has the burn, not just the pretty show that Mahanon is performing for him. That’s what makes Mahanon’s face hot. “You’re as loyal as a Charger. You’re family. I never doubt that.”

Twisting his own fingers in his ass, Mahanon sucks hard on the crown of Iron Bull’s dick, watching him as he speaks, listening with every fiber of his being.

“You bring me dragons, and you do what I say when you’re supposed to do it.”

Bull’s hands, left with nothing to do for a moment there, they come down as he kneels too, and his face is close and his breath is hot and oh, he’s a different kind of fire and he’s worth being burned by. He’s kissing Mahanon and tasting himself on Mahanon’s tongue before Mahanon has any idea what’s happening. Bull kisses fiercely, like he’s making a point in a debate. When he’s finished, he pulls back, looking for something in Mahanon’s face.

“You’re good, and I’m gonna fuck you till you lose your voice.”

If he had time, Mahanon would croak in surprise; he doesn’t. All the tight control that Bull had been using up till now to hold back is let go, and oily fingers grab him by the shoulders, flip him, set him down on his hands and knees. Mahanon takes the hint, has a split second to brace himself and then he has one of those fingers in him, testing, touching deep, deeper, twisting--

“AAHH--!!”

“Good. Again.” Bull’s finger twists again in the exact same spot, harder, and Mahanon feels it spike up his spine. He moans louder, and this seems to please Bull. “Like that, just like that.”

Two fingers, suddenly, completing something that Mahanon didn’t realize he was waiting for. He feels his body pull tight, cock jumping, but Bull’s free hand is there to pull him back, a little too rough on his dick, slipping him past the edge of orgasm without letting him have it. He chokes on a whine of confused disappointment, but his enthusiasm is rekindled by the continued presence of Bull’s very adept fingers inside him.

“How many times you think I can get you off?”

“ _Nnnnhh_! I- Iiiiii don’t know let’s find out--!”

“I’m going to get you off exactly once tonight. I’m going to make it so good you want to go write a song about it.” Three fingers now; he almost hits orgasm, again, and again Bull’s hand stops him, jangles him out of it before he can reach what his body is clamoring for. Mahanon is trying to complain, to say that that’s a bad idea, but what comes out is:

“Please-- _hh_! Please just-- use-- however-- do it, do what you want, fuck me, fuck me, please please just--!”

“Yes.” That is the deepest he’s heard Iron Bull’s voice get, and the sound is, in and of itself, like an aphrodisiac. Mahanon buries his face in his crossed forearms, pushing his hips back into those three, perfect, wonderful fingers, and he begs wordlessly until Iron Bull is satisfied and finally withdraws his hand. “Are you ready for me, Kadan?”

Of course, he says yes; he can’t imagine that the answer is otherwise. But Bull is still cautious, and smooths an extra dollop of oil over his massive dick just to be safe before lining up, pressing in. Maybe Mahanon isn’t stretched enough-- they spent a lot less time than usual-- but oh, it’s smooth, and Bull slides right in, all the way in, deeper and deeper and--

And-- Bull’s hand is still--

“ _AAAAhhh_!” this time it’s a shout of frustration, outrage, adrenaline repurposed yet again-- fear to fighting to fucking to fury as Bull continues to drag Mahanon away from orgasm, over and over and over again, even while he fucks his way in. “You bastard,” he snarls, forgetting to play at obedience, and he feels Bull’s teeth sink into his shoulder and nearly ends up coming from that alone. Bull is savvy to him though, twists a little painfully and presses an implacable thumb over the head of Mahanon’s dick. “Ffffuuuuuuck!”

“Fuck you?”

“ _Yes_!”

“You asked!” And there’s a joyous savage glory in Iron Bull’s voice as they finally start to move together. It’s overwhelming. Mahanon’s breath is knocked out of him with every thrust, and his legs feel like they’re spread impossibly wide, and Bull still won’t let him come so all he can do is scream and moan and scream again, alternating between the two until he runs out of breath. His body is covered with sweat and Bull is still going at that maddeningly steady pace, fucking him, long, slow drag out, sharp thrust all the way in, rocking him so hard he sees stars when Bull pushes back into him.

They aren’t talking anymore; Bull is snarling in his native tongue and Mahanon is doing the same, both forgetting themselves, neither caring. He curses every ruined orgasm, and Iron Bull’s voice is a litany of foreign words of praise in a heated tone that drips adoration. The tenth time he tenses up, nearing orgasm again only to  have Bull deftly deny him, Mahanon starts begging him, elvish flowing out of his lips, soft words, ragged, his voice hoarse already and his body aching with the need to be let go. He’s wound so tight he could burst. He feels like they’re still fighting the dragon, like it will never end and his endurance is failing him.

Bull does not show mercy; Bull fucks him, fucks him hard and slow, fucks him until he can’t make sound and his silence is split only by the harsh, desperate sound of his breath in the tent. His whole world has narrowed to the blood roaring in his ears, the need to find release, the need for Bull to release inside him. He doesn’t know when those words finally surface in his memory exactly, but he fixates on them, on the thought that he is going to be wet inside, filled with Bull’s semen. The object of his desire slowly shifts, because it is clear he will not be allowed to reach orgasm unless or until the Iron Bull decrees it. But the Iron Bull will eventually come, and promised to do it inside him, and Mahanon can feel his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he imagines it, eyes rolling with each thrust, mind utterly focused on the push and pull, the deep, complete sensation of belonging to Iron Bull that has settled into his bones.

Most of Mahanon’s lovers have sped their motions when they’re about to finish; he is waiting for that. But Iron Bull is methodical, meticulous. He never changes his pace, nor misses a thrust. He gets rougher, instead. Same speed, but he slides home so hard that it rattles Mahanon’s teeth.

The final thrust is so rough he bites his lip, mouth opening in a soundless cry of relief as Bull leans forward over him and heat pours into him, hot wet full feeling deep, deep in his belly. And that-- that feeling of being used as he was intended to be used this night-- that is what is curling around him as his body weakly answers, a quiet but devastating orgasm that Bull milks out of him, helping it along as if to make up for all those previously denied. With each spasm of his body around that massive dick inside him, Mahanon feels the heat of his own arousal rising; Bull’s hand squeezing him in time only amplifies that, and he makes a startled warble of surprise as the sensation overwhelms him, shocking him. He becomes hyperaware that he is full and semen is already leaking out of him and hungrily thinks that he wants more, that he would beg to suck and be fucked by Iron Bull’s cock all night if he thought he would get what he asked for.

He is still coming when he blacks out, shaking with it, mind completely, blessedly blank.

  
  


* * *

 

**home**

When did Skyhold become home?

When did he get used to sleeping in a bed, instead of slung on the edge of an aravel, ready to wake at a moment’s notice?

Sometimes, Mahanon wakes up and  Iron Bull is already holding him, one arm around his waist, full of reassurance until the panic passes. Iron Bull knows what to say, to remind him: We can leave anytime if you want. Heroes in this part of the world kind of have a tendency to do that, you know?

We can go home to your clan if you want.

That’s just it, though: Mahanon feels at home where Iron Bull and the Chargers are; where Cole and Varric are. He feels personally responsible for seeing through at least another year’s worth of little details, and more always seem to crop up whenever he tries to settle the existing problems. Blackwall wouldn’t be around anymore if he left; and while he could probably keep in touch with Sera, he’d miss her room in Skyhold, spending mornings hiding out there and plotting harmless little pranks on the cook in the kitchens across the castle.

He’s never had a stationary home before. He’s not sure he wants to stay. He’s not sure he wants to leave.

There’s an aimlessness that follows the death of Corypheus; Morrigan disappeared overnight, bringing her son with her. Leliana is Divine now, and hasn’t got business with the Inquisition so much as plans for it. They still attend to things, yes, but maybe everyone is looking to Mahanon to figure out where to go next.

That’s why he sends out Varric, Cassandra and Blackwall to search for news of Solas. That’s why he asks Cole to check for clues about lyrium with Dagna, who is about the only person in the castle aside from himself and Varric who has no problem with Cole’s tendency to lurk over one’s shoulder. Even though Cassandra had talked about the importance of being able to lay down the sword when their business was done, it doesn’t seem like Mahanon will be allowed to lay the sword down anytime soon.

Maybe this is what motivated him to personally seek the attention of Ser Sebastian Vael. The man is still furious about the Inquisition’s efforts to drive Starkhaven’s forces from the city of Kirkwall-- still blames the city and suspects their citizens of harboring the mage Anders. Varric is out of the castle for a reason right now-- to spare him that meeting.

So far it hasn’t gone well; Vael has already stormed out twice, and might not be back again. The restlessness, the feeling of failure, the feeling of loss, the fear that in the end, he’s still a traitor-- traitor who let a shemlen drink from the well of sorrows!-- that’s all no good.

That’s why Iron Bull has suggested they try something new tonight. Mahanon is doing his best to hold still while Bull’s big fingers tenderly secure him, binding his knees together, hands behind his back, crossed with his elbows. Ankles together, and a loop that comes up between his legs, hooking over his head. If he tries to straighten, it pulls all the other ropes tight; if he hangs his head obediently, the ropes stay slack.

He lowers his head, and waits, as Bull begins to undress.

“Not easy talking with that Vael asshole, is it?”

Mahanon laughs. “No, and I’m regretting sending Varric off. I mean, it is safer for him but--”

“At least you could commiserate about him. Yeah, I agree. Guy’s a real piece of work.” The last of Bull’s clothing falls to the floor with a soft rustle, and he steps close again. “So, I was thinking, you do really well with pain. It’s about control, and you need control, especially right now, right?”

“Yes.”

“So,” Bull comes around the side so they can look each other in the eye. “Pain for reward, just like these damn talks are. Little pain, little reward. Longer you endure, better you get. Thing is--”

Mahanon clears his throat; so far, he likes what he’s hearing. Nothing the Iron Bull can put before  him is going to sound worse than having to tolerate Sebastian Vael’s ego for another hour in the meeting room. “Yes?”

“I love how much noise you make, but I don’t think we want to advertise that part of our relationship while Vael’s in the area.”

Wrinkling his nose, Mahanon nods. “Agreed.”

“So, gag?”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of solutions. We can put a gag on you; if you need to stop, we’ll have a modified safe word. See how I kept your hands pretty free? Well. Feel?”

Though his forearms are wrapped tight with ring after ring of rope, Mahanon notes that both his hands are free, and nods in agreement. “Yes. So make a signal with my hands?”

“Basically, keep your hands clenched or relaxed. If you switch I’ll know to check with you ‘cause you lost your focus. Sound good?”

It actually does seem quite wise, and Mahanon turns a smile Bull’s way. “Sounds good to me, as long as you’re all right with it.”

“All right with tying you up and gagging you? I hate to break it to you, but uh, I have some pretty unique tastes. Might be part of the Ben-Hassrath thing, but eh-- I like to think it’s me.” Chuckling, Iron Bull produces the gag in question, helps Mahanon bite down on the soft middle, and ties it tight behind his head. It’s tight, but doesn’t cut into the skin. He finds, to his surprise, that if he lets himself relax, he is balanced and doesn’t have to strain at all to keep that way.

As Bull circles him, Mahanon can feel his breath quickening. He’s not sure what to anticipate from Bull for the ‘pain’, but he is determined to outlast whatever he must. A little bit of physical stimulation is exactly what he needs after the days he’s just had; maybe Bull wants to try penetrative sex without as much preparation as they usually do? But this seems unlikely to be the goal of their current interaction, since it would be difficult with Mahanon tied as he is. Spanking? But his body is curled forward, weight balanced on his knees, buttocks resting against his calves. That would be difficult to accomplish, unless Bull wants to pick him up and throw him across that lap.

That wouldn’t be a bad idea, but it doesn’t seem to be the correct one, as Bull comes to a full stop behind him and a sharp sound like thunder snaps through the room.

Mahanon feels his eyes widen, though it’s a little bit silly to be surprised, at this point.

“Three lashes to start,” Bull suggests, dangling the tip of it so that it brushes along the skin of Mahanon’s back, lightly touching where it will soon sting him. He shivers, holding his breath a moment, and tries to banish the slight doubt from his gut. “If you’re fine after those, I’ll pop you off a quick one, and we can try for more if you want a bigger reward.”

It seems reasonable, and Mahanon’s mind is now busily tracking over the possibilities of how this will work out-- how he will need to cover the injuries (bruises? well, the marks, anyway, Bull has never hurt Mahanon before and seems unlikely to suddenly change his mind about it now) when he is attending the next round of meetings with visiting dignitaries tomorrow? He nods, thinking that this will be interesting but simple, and as Bull cracks the whip several more times, eventually becomes used to it, barely responding to the sharpness of the sound. It still hasn’t stuck him, yet, so he imagines Bull is waiting until Mahanon is completely relaxed before proceeding.

“One!” Bull announces, a split second before the whip comes down, and a blistering shock of pain stings along his spine, cutting a sharp and definitive mark up the length of Mahanon’s lower back. The feeling is like lightning, like the potions he drinks to speed across the battlefield and sting a dragon a hundred times in the blink of a normal eye. There’s pain, sharp and clear and crisp as a melon in the spring rains, and he feels the skin splitting, the drip of blood, but he also feels the pain lance through his bound hands and feet and shock into his chest and his groin and his nipples are hard, he’s hard, his face goes red and after the initial shock has finally, finally passed he sags:

“ _Nnnnhhhh_ \--!!”

Bull cracks the whip again, but he doesn’t say two, so after the first three or four flicks of it Mahanon’s head clears and he becomes certain that Bull isn’t planning to surprise him for real. There will be a ‘two’, and that is the strike that will connect. In the meantime, his body is getting warm, he can feel his ears flushed to their tips, and it should be impossible to be this hungry for more pain but when Bull’s voice breaks the silence Mahanon is eager for the aftermath.

“Two!” Crack!

Mahanon’s body jerks whether he wants it to or not, but his head sinks lower, muffled voice rising up in a shuddering groan of pleasure, “Mmnnn--!” as he reels, trying to stay focused, stay ready. He had originally clenched his hands, so he keeps them clenched, glad he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally signaling to stop when he wants to keep going.

The same cycle repeats, though this time Bull cracks the whip for long enough that, were it not working, Mahanon would probably have gotten anxious. Instead he’s sinking deep into a place of readiness, and his head feels a bit fuzzy but his body is singing with excitement, his nipples are tingling and his back is throbbing, itchy, painful, pleasant, the slide of a droplet of blood here or there (he’s not bleeding much, it’s fine) trickling coolly down his skin quite welcome.

Despite his best intentions, he is unprepared when the third strike comes.

“THREE!” Bull roars, and the whip cracks perfectly-- three parallel lines, thoughtfully arranged so they do not cross each other and can’t rip each other open-- biting deeper, this time, and Mahanon is shocked to feel his face getting even hotter. His hands jerk against the ropes, his knees do, he arcs up, slumps down, and his voice is a low, keening, pleading wail as he kneels there, bound into supplication for release, for more, to be used, to be made to do whatever Irion Bull wants to do.

Bull’s voice comes to him out of a fog, close to his ear, gently whispering to hold still. He does, and the gag is untied; he’s pulled up into a deep kiss, and Mahanon yields happily, lets Bull drive that wonderful tongue into his mouth and sucks on it for good measure.  

When they break apart, Bull catches Mahanon’s attention, holds it, and starts stroking him off, hard and fast and dirty, tweaking a nipple as he comes to make him sigh Bull’s name.

The sex is like an afterthought. It was promised to him, and without it, he thinks blearily, without it the pain would be too much, and it would hurt instead of helping him. But this is good, and Bull is planting loving kisses on Mahanon’s face, his shoulders, his chest, telling him crooningly that he is well-behaved, that he is precious.

“Bull, will you-- would you lick me clean?” Mahanon swallows thickly, not sure he had enough voice even to be heard; but he can see that the words made it through, in Bull’s eye, in Bull’s calculating expression. “Please?”

“Of course I will,” Bull promises, and moves behind him, steadies him with a hand on his hips and another on his shoulders.

The whip is clean and fast, the pain that comes with it almost an after-effect. The long, slow draw of Bull’s so-gentle tongue, however, is a lingering agony that drives Mahanon almost to the edge of his endurance. It makes him shiver and it makes him hurt, and it makes him feel like he is safe, that Bull will see him mended and whole again and Mahanon does not have to worry about whether things work out or not.

He doesn’t even realize he is speaking until Bull pulls back, pulls him back and presses a kiss to Mahanon’s cheek. “Shh. You don’t have to think about any of that while you’re here with me. I’ll keep all that on the shelf for you, you can have it back when we’re done. Right now, there’s just us, and you are so, so good for me, Kadan-- you have nothing to worry about. You’re doing exactly what you should.”

Something releases in Mahanon’s shoulders, a tension he hadn’t quite realized he was still carrying, and he laughs. “Am I?”

“Mmm.” Bull noses against him, kissing his cheek again, more soundly this time. “Yup, you are.”

“Thank you, Bull.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Iron Bull teased, settling Mahanon back in place and standing back up. “Round two is five lashes, and then we’re done and I’m gonna get you healed up with some of those poultices Stitches makes. You up for it?”

After fighting his way through Haven’s initial violent politics to the final battle with Corypheus, the idea of a space totally his own with just Iron Bull and himself is too appealing to resist. Mahanon settles back into place, and nods. “Absolutely. But-- I’ll need the gag back.”

He can feel, rather than see, how proud Bull is of him-- to have come this far, to be able to admit when he needs help to accomplish a goal instead of stubbornly blundering forward, determined to stand alone-- and he remembers to be embarrassed, while Bull reties the gag and steps back again.

A crack of the whip, another, and Bull pauses. “Oh-- the reward, by the way, is cookies. I pulled a few strings with Varric. I heard this kind are your favorite.”

Mahanon is envisioning how this will go already; they can never keep the bed clean for want of Iron Bull’s fascination with eating crumbly things off of each other’s stomachs. He smiles to himself behind the gag, and nods in agreement, bracing himself again.

When the whip comes down, his blood sings, and  he feels utterly at peace. Maybe it’s a strange sort of normalcy he’s carved out of this place for himself, but he's finally realizing that it is home.

“One!” Iron Bull counts off for him, voice swelling with pride and affection for his resolve.

Anywhere with Iron Bull would be home. 


End file.
